Downtime Chapter 1: All Week

Hey Patrons!

I've had a story idea I have been thinking about writing for a long time, and yesterday decided to write the first chapter. I'm in the midst of editing Primal Wizardry for publishing, and when I'm in that mode, writing content for a series where continuity is critical can be difficult.

So, I decided to start writing Downtime in, well, my downtime.

This story is essentially Seinfeld set in a fantasy setting. Currently, I am writing it as a general D&D setting, but I might switch it to a litRPG at some point as that introduces a whole lot of additional tropes.

Downtime is supposed to be a comedy, but I can't tell if its funny or not myself. So please, if you read this, leave brutally honest comments. It won't be offended or mad. I'm posting this to see if I'm wasting my time here.

Also, this goes without saying, but this story isn't going to be edited at all.

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A dwarf and an elf sat across from each other in crowded tavern in silence, intermittently looking up at each other over the rims of their ales.

The warrior of their party had died on their last adventure. They were observing the time-honored tradition amongst adventurers, where they drank in remembrance of their fallen comrade.

Neither knew what to say until finally, Grom the dwarven cleric spoke.

“I hated that guy,” he said, downing his empty mug and slamming it on the tables.

“You can’t say that!” Sybil the elf said in a loud yet subtle way that only a bard could pull off.

“You didn’t like him either,” Grom said, flagging the waiter down for another ale.

“Yeah, but I’m not going around saying it,” Syril said.

He examined his half empty ale, deciding if he wanted a second.

“Whose ‘going around?’” Grom asked, looking around the room.

“It’s just not done.”

“Well, lot’s of things that are ‘just not don’ seem to be happening lately,” Grom said.

The waitress hadn’t seen his short arm waving her over and he was gesturing in a more frustrated fashion.

“The rogue sending the local courier to the dungeon with a note saying ‘I’ll meet you inside’ for example. That’s not done.”

Syril paused about to take a sip and raised his mug in acknowledgement.

“Yeah, that was bad.”

As if summoned by the mention of him, the doors to the tavern burst open and a tall lanky man clad in dark leathers came in, closing the door behind him.

Despite his sudden and abrupt entrance, everyone turned away a moment after they saw him. This wasn’t a subtle trick of roguery, however. He was simply a known figure and none of the patrons wanted anything to do with whatever chaos he was bringing into the tavern.

He quickly spotted the pair and ran over to their table.

“If anyone asks,” the rogue said quickly, sitting down and flagging the waitress in a singe move. “I’ve been with you guys all week.”

“You were supposed to have been with us all week,” Syril pointed out.

“Perfect, I knew I could count on you Syril,” the rogue said.

“Linar, he’s not playing along,” Grom said, having finally put his arm down after Linar had gotten the waitress’ attention. “You were supposed to go in the dungeon with us.”

“Was I?”

“How did you forge?” Syril asked. “You sent a note.”

“Oh yeah! I did! Sorry about that, I hope everything went well. Why are you two here? Celebrating?”

“Bill died,” Grom said, and when the waitress arrived he said in heavily accented dwarven accent missing up until then. “I’ll take another, lassy!”

“Of course!” she said, taking his empty mugs away.

“Why did you do that?” Linar asked, looking from the retreating waitress to Grom.

“I didn’t kill him,” Grom answered. “A poisoned dart from a trap did. A tray that you were supposed to detect and disarm last time we entered.”

“Oh, yeah. That trap. Well I knew about it, but I figured I’d just get it on our next delve.”

“But you didn’t show up,” Syril said.

“Yeah… sorry about that. Won’t happen again.” Linar said, eyes scanning the room for signs of a threat. “But what’s with that accent thing.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Grom said.

“He slept with that waitress last week before the delve. She said she’d always wanted to meet a Revan dwarf, and Grom overheard it, played up the accent. Now he can’t let it drop around her.”

“Well that was stupid,” Linar said. “You guys come here all the time.”

“I didn’t know she worked here,” Grom said, smiling at the aforementioned waitress that was coming over with drinks in hand. “Thanks lassy, Reva bless you on the humble yet solemn day.”

“Oh, solemn? What happened? I thought you had retrieved the treasure.” She said, voice full of concern.

“Bill died,” Syril said, saving Grom the effort of faking more Revan accent. “Stepped on a dart trap.”

“Oh no, Ellen must be so distraught,” she said, dabbing at a budding tear in her eyes. “They’d just gotten together.”

“Yeah, those dart traps can be tricky,” Linar said, grabbing a handful of pretzels off the table and eating them as he continued to talk. “You really should have brought a rogue with.”

“What do you mean Linar?” Syril asked. “You were with us all week.”

Linar looked at Syril with a furrowed brow until his eyes lit up in recognition.

“Oh yeah, those dart traps are tricky. I really should have seen it.”

“Oh! You should do the funeral!” the waitress said, “It would be perfect! You were with him in his last days. You were his ally. You’re a cleric of Cland, the god of adventurers. Who better?”

“Aye… who better indeed?” Grom said, taking another drink.

Sometime later after the waitress had left after wringing every last detail of the “planned”  ceremony from Grom, Linar asked, “What’s her name?”

“We don’t know,” Syril said.

“How do you not know?”

“I thought her name was Cindy, but when I called her Cindy, she looked behind her… then I had to wave to some random women behind her. Not its too late to ask.”

“I could ask for you,” Linar offered.

“That would be great,” Grom agreed.

When the waitress came back, with more drinks in hand, Linar got her attention with a snap.

“Hey, my friend Grom here has a question for you,” Linar said, and then gestured to the dwarf.

The dwarf shot daggers at the rogue.

“Well if you’re too shy to ask, I guess I will,” Linar began. “What’s your name—”

“Naming convention,” Grom said, interrupting and finishing the sentence. “How da humans change their name’s after they get married.”

The waitress’ eyes grew wide, and she began playing with the hem of her dress in an excited manner.

“Well, we take the last names of our husbands of course, though… if I were to marry a Revan dwarf, I suppose I would do whatever their culture dictated.”

“We… uh… he combine names,” he said. “The first half ‘o the husbands and the second helf ‘o the wife’s. Me last name is Clavinta… and yours is…”

The words hung there for a moment, and instead of providing her name, she shouted, “Clavipple! Our name would be Clavipple!”

“Hey! Stop flirting and get back to work!” the barkeep shouted across the tavern to the still unnamed waitress.

She mouthed sorry and turned to go with a coy smile.

“Gods help me,” Grom said, burying his face in his hands.

“Which ones?” Syril said, “Cland? Or Borith? Or was it Sinth? You seem to be the cleric of quite a few.”

“How about you leave the divinities to me, and you worry about getting us out of trouble for whatever Linar is about to bring down upon us.”

“Hey! I was with you guys all week.”

“Right, right.” The two said in unison.

The door opened again, and a human women clad in a scarlet wizard robe strode in, a black cat familiar perched on her shoulder. Her eyes went straight to their booth and she nodded, heading over.

“Heya Ellen!” Linar said a little too loudly, looking around to see who was listening. “I can’t seem to get away from you! We spent all week in that dungeon and now you’re here!”

Ellen stopped, looking Linar up and down and then shook her head, choosing to not engange.

“What are you guys drinking to?” she said, eyeing the collection of mugs and taking a seat next to Syril.

“Bill,” Syril said.

“What about him?” she asked.

“He died Ellen! Because I missed a trap!” Linar said loudly, though he was smiling and nodding, like he’d just had a great idea. “I’m so sorry! I’ll donate my portion of the treasure to his next of kin.”

“But you didn’t get any treasure,” Grom whispered, “Remember?”

“What are you talking about?” Linar asked, feigning aghast. “I was there all week!”

“Oh yeah… Bill,” Ellen said.

“You don’t seem too broken up about it,” Syril observed.

“Well… I was looking for an easy way to break up with him. I was considering trapping myself in a time dilation bubble. That worked last time. He definitely would have cheated on me when I was in there and I could just end it easily. He seemed like the type to cheat but this works out better.”

“Why were you going to break up with him?” Syril asked. “You need to stop dating all the warriors we recruit.”

“Well then you need to stop recruiting certifiable beef cakes. Do you know what the men in the wizarding college are like? Do you? They are the human equivalent of a wet noodle if a wet noodle had been attacked by a wight.”

“I guess I’ll go put out a notice” Syril said with a sigh.

“Why not ask at the funeral?” Linar asked, earning strange looks from all four—including the cat.

“What? Funerals are great places to meet new people. In fact, I just met a fine young widower at a funeral this week past.”

“You were with us all week,” Syril and Grom said in unison.

“Exactly, and that’s what you should say if her husband shows up.”

“I thought she was a widower.” Ellen said.

“Yeah… with gods, that’s not as permanent of a position as you’d hope. It turns out that despite being terminally ill, he’d been murdered so the cleric was able to revive him.”

“Linar,” Syril said in a serious tone. “Did you murder a dying man so you could sleep with his widow?”

“Of course not,” Linar said, still a little too loud. “I was with you guys all week.”